


No Cheers for the Birthday Girl

by Bethy1416



Category: Holby City
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Friends to Lovers, maternal jac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-21 07:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethy1416/pseuds/Bethy1416
Summary: It's Jac's birthday, which only a select few know about. So what happens when a certain Director of Nursing finds out and insists on celebrating with her? We all know Jac isn't one for a fuss, but Fletch is particularly good at the art of persuasion. Flac.Short, multi-chapter. Just to keep us on our toes! (Also on ff-dot-net)





	1. Personal Property

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I was a bit stuck on what to do for this fic so asked @BollyOlive on Twitter for some word prompts. She suggested, “fandom”, “glasses” and “shoes”. She also wanted to see some flac cuteness on Jac’s birthday. So, for the purposes of this fic only, Jac’s birthday is January instead of April so that I can use their storylines and relationship development as they currently stand in the show.  
> I also wanted to make this multichapter for dramatic effect haha :’D hope you enjoy!

“You know what day it is, right?” Sacha asks, seemingly appearing from nowhere and startling Fletch as they walk down the corridor towards Darwin. Fletch frowns back at the man in one of his signature patterned shirts, and continues juggling the folders in his arms. “Jac’s birthday.”

This gives Fletch pause. A pause that Sacha clearly wasn’t expecting as he collides into his back with a grunt. 

“I hardly think she’d appreciate a party,” Fletch muses.

“Oh, no. She wouldn’t. Can’t think of anything she’d hate more.”

Fletch frowns at him again. “So why you telling me?”

“I don’t know. Just thought I’d mention it.” 

Jac exits her office across the ward and catches Fletch’s eye as Sacha walks back down the corridor. She goes to one of the beds and begins talking with a patient, so Fletch decides to wait for her in her office. 

 

He sorts the folders into piles on the cream sofa and hesitantly approaches her desk in search of a pen. He finds a biro and a wad of post-it notes which he snatches up to take back to his makeshift station on her couch. 

He’s hunched over paperwork for nearly an hour before deciding that she’s not coming back anytime soon. Must be in surgery. With folders propped under one arm and her stationary in his pocket, he makes his way to his own office where he stretches out his back with a relieving  _ crack  _ and  _ pop _ .

 

Jac’s on her way back from surgery as she studies the ward; everything running as it should be and nobody acting any differently. Good. They’re not even aware it’s her birthday. This does cause her lips to quirk upwards a little. She lets her body fall into the padding of her office chair then closes her eyes as she shakes out her hair and runs a hand over her face. She sighs and looks over her desk in the hopes of picking up from where she’d left off prior to surgery. The little dent between her brows deepens as she squints at the objects across the tabletop. And then her jaw tenses as she realises what’s wrong. 

 

There’s a space where her sticky notes should be and a pen less in the desk tidy.

 

She sits and stares at the offending gap, tiredness washing over her. Only one man would have the nerve to steal from her. As she pushes herself from her chair, the culprit himself appears in her doorway. She takes one look at him and growls. 

“First my stationary and now my glasses! What is it you don’t understand about  _ personal  _ property?” 

He smirks and reaches a hand behind his ear, making her glasses bounce on his nose. 

“What do you think?” He asks, pulling a few poses and changing his expression. “You left them with a patient.”

She audibly draws in breath, preparing to deliver an onslaught of verbal abuse, when he changes his modelling stance; narrows his eyes, tilts his head and gazes solemnly at her. Her mouth snaps shut and they watch each other. It takes a few seconds for him to remember to drop the expression and then he raises his eyebrows as he removes the glasses and hands them back. She snatches them from his fingers and holds out a hand, into which he hesitantly places the stationary. 

“Honestly, you should see someone about your obsessive need to take things that aren’t yours.”

“What can I say? I’m a proud member of the Jac Naylor fandom. I’ll be after your shoes next!” 

She frowns at his humour.

“What’s wrong?” He questions as she walks back behind her desk without even a hint of amusement.

“Nothing.”

He waits for her to face him before quirking his eyebrows incredulously at her. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m tired. Don’t you have work to be doing?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

“I am  _ fine _ , Fletcher.”

“If that’s the case, you won’t mind going out with me tonight.” This surprises them both; their eyes go wide at his sudden display of courage. “For your birthday, that is.”

She processes his words and rolls her eyes. “No.”

“Come on!”

“No. How the hell do you know, anyway?” She pauses, waiting for a response, but doesn’t need one. “ _ Sacha _ . I’ll need to train him to keep his mouth shut in future.”

“He knew you wouldn’t want a fuss. I’ve not told anyone.” She can practically hear the agonising grind of his brain slowly processing an idea. “But… well, it’s the rules. You have to do something for your birthday. If you don’t go out with me, then I have no choice but to tell the others so that we can all make a fuss over the birthday girl in Alby’s.”

She narrows her eyes at him, threatening him to go no further. He mirrors her in challenge. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“That’s settled then. Where shall we go?”

“Fletch.”

“I don’t pin us down for the clubbing type, but if that’s your thing then I suppose I can make an exception.”

“Fletcher,” she warns. 

“There are bars, or restaurants or-”

“Adrian, I am not going out with you.”

He stops in his pondering to study her. There’s a reason she’s not keen on the idea, and for once he believes it’s not the prospect of his company.

“What would you prefer to do, Jac?”

“Go home and act like normal,” she states, not meeting his gaze.

“Okay then. That’s what we’ll do.”

Now, she looks him dead in the eye. Who does he think he is?! Inviting himself over… “What?  _ No _ ! How is that in any way normal?”

“We are doing something for your birthday, end of story.”

“You can’t say that!”

“That, or I want an explanation.” He doesn’t need to elaborate what this explanation is about, she already knows; he wants answers and those answers involve nightmares and bug-infested cakes and memories she’d rather ignore.

“This isn’t fair.”

“Look… I won’t pressure you into anything, I’m not like that. But I just want to celebrate my friend’s birthday after a rough year. Even if we use it as an excuse to let our hair down. You have to admit that we’re friends, right?”

Her expression seems confused, whilst somehow quite tender. “I… suppose.”

“Then don’t see this as me inviting you for a birthday party, but me inviting you to have some fun for a change.”

She cocks an eyebrow at the potential double entendre, but he stands his ground by crossing his arms.

“Fine, but that answer is contingent on what you suggest we do.”

 

It is with great delight that he finds himself the reason for Jac Naylor smiling as she leaves work, agreeing to see him later. 


	2. Maps and Fingerless Gloves

It had taken some thought and some rather blunt knockbacks from the redhead before he’d had the brainwave. He’d been apprehensive about suggesting it to begin with, and rightfully so upon seeing her reaction, but after his explanation they were both willing to give it a go.

 

So here he stands, outside Jac’s door. He rubs his hands together as he waits for her to answer, the January air blossoming as puffs of cloud from his lips and biting at his knuckles through the wool of his gloves. She opens the door and barely says hello before she's beckoning him inside and retreating down the hallway. He lingers on the doormat for a moment but follows after her, checking his hair in the mirror on the way past. 

“Have you made sure they're open? It's bloody cold,” she asks, wrapping a scarf around her neck. 

“They're open and it’s undercover.” He wiggles his gloved fingers at her, which reminds her to stuff her own in her coat pockets. 

“Right. Let's go.”

 

He can tell something’s a little off with her as she sits looking out the window, far quieter than is acceptable of even Jac’s standards, not to mention that she didn’t put up a fight when he said that he’d drive. Their destination is about forty minutes outside of Holby and so far the journey has been silent and surprisingly tense. It's as though everything they've built-up to form their relationship over the past several months has been abandoned and forgotten about in the hospital. 

“We don't have to do this, you know.”

“Now why wasn't I given this option earlier?” She comments sarcastically, sparing a brief glance across at him.

“You know what I mean. We can just eat and go back.” 

“No. If we wanted to have dinner then we could have gone five minutes down the road. We've come this far, we may as well give it a go.”

He doesn't argue any further. But now he's really doubting whether this would do more harm than good. The whole idea was that it would allow them both to confront their fears, their weaknesses. Trying to find something that would intrigue Jac and persuade her to give in to his insistence on celebrating her birthday was a challenge to rival that of any  _ Mission: Impossible _ film. He'd known things like dancing and going to the cinema would not appeal, and that was only confirmed by her expression when he suggested them… his options were running low. 

_ “Why would I need you to do that with me? I have films and I have music,” had been her response. He couldn't help but smirk at the image in his head of her dancing alone at home. _

_ “What about… ghost tours?” _

_ She hadn't even dignified this with a response.  _

_ “Okay, I've got it. But don't bite my head off... Shooting range.” _

_ She’d looked at him in disbelief. “Give me one reason why I  _ shouldn't  _ bite your head off right now?” _

_ “Look, I know it seems like a ridiculous suggestion after what we've both been through, what  _ you've  _ been through. But couldn't it be helpful to learn to control the object that we're afraid of?” _

_ “I'm not afraid.” _

_ He’d tilted his head, doubtfully. “Fine. But it is a weakness. Even you have to admit that. Look at how things have changed for us since that gun came into our lives. You're still recovering, people are still grieving, I'm scared that that could happen all over again every second of every day. Maybe confronting it could… I don't know, help the healing process.” _

_ “Or it could make us a million times worse.” _

_ He’d paused and considered her words. “Yeah, I suppose.” _

_ She’d sighed at the defeat on his face and risen from her chair. “Look… I appreciate you trying to do this. Not… not many people have. But it's easier for everyone if we just don't bother.” _

_ “Don't be daft. We don't have to go to the shooting range, we don't have to go anywhere if you prefer. I just thought it might be beneficial for us to wrap our heads around the mechanics of it. We won't ever understand the motives he had that day, but perhaps taking away the unknown of the weapon he used would compensate for it somehow.” _

_ “Fine. We'll do it,” she’d said softly, giving a hesitant smile.  _

_ “Really?” _

_ “Yeah, why not. We can't make our conceptions of guns much worse, surely? You're already a security nut and I'm a scarred target.” _

_ He’d laughed and shaken his head.  _

_ “Only if you're certain?” _

_ “We can always change our minds.” _

_ He’d agreed and they'd arranged a time and place. She’d been no more convinced of his idea than when he'd first suggested it, but she'd heard the determination in his voice and, for some reason, she hadn't the heart to say no. To say she has a soft spot for him is an understatement. _

 

They're lost; as is often the case with British roadways, the signs had run out. One minute they’re told to turn right, four miles from the place, the next they're cruising down a road to a dead end. 

“We must have missed a turning,” Jac states, twisting to look through the rearview window in the hopes of seeing a signpost. “Where's your map?” 

“Just use your phone.”

“If you want my help then I'm going to need your map.” She raises her eyebrows at him with her arms crossed. 

He turns and reaches behind her chair, giving an awkward smile when he's about a centimetre from having his face nuzzled into the soft material on her shoulder.

He eventually pulls out the road map and puts it on her lap. She shines the light of her phone onto the pages as she flicks through to the section with Holby, then traces her finger along the colour coded veins to find where they are. He sets up the maps application on his phone and turns the car around before driving back the way they'd come. A battle of navigation begins.

In the darkness of a January evening, the country roads are quiet and the bare trees are like a laced canopy above them. His phone beeps to alert him of the loss of reception, and he steels himself for the told-you-so look that's undoubtedly gracing Jac's face right now. 

“You're going to want to take a left after this bend,” she instructs, giving a smug grin. He mirrors it sarcastically and accelerates away. 

 

They pull into the gravel car park and both peer out at the darkness surrounding a dubious warehouse. They glance hesitantly at each other before doing up their coats and stepping out of the car. Jac retrieves the fingerless gloves from her pocket and wriggles them onto her hands as Fletch tugs on the collar of his jacket to protect his neck from the chill. They walk side by side towards the entrance, their sleeves brushing against one another. He holds the door open for her as she steps inside and she surprises him when she pauses to wait for him. He can’t help but find her hesitance quite sweet. He goes to the slanted desk and signs them in with the receptionist before they’re shown through to a small room with rows of benches. Several people are already seated and a few offer a welcoming smile when they enter. They’re instructed to wait a few minutes whilst the rest of the group joins them, then an instructor will take it from there.

“I didn’t realise you’d signed us up for Gun Academy,” Jac murmurs, her breath warm against his cheek. He gives a sidewards glance, telling her that he’d not realised it either, and gently touches the small of her back, motioning for her to take a seat. She perches on one of the benches with her hands in her pockets and he comes to sit directly beside her, their uncertainty about this environment welcoming such close proximity. 

“Let’s play a game called, social class,” she whispers, somehow leaning even closer. “Those three are definitely into the violent video games.” She subtly nods her head in the direction of a small group of guys, probably in their early twenties. 

He chuckles. “He’s got to be the kind that has poaching trophies on every wall of his house,” he replies and she follows his gaze to a man with an unkempt beard and bandana. 

“Ugh, god,” she groans when her sight latches onto a couple of men in the corner of the room. “I’m just popping out with the horse and hound for a jolly good hunt, Margaret. I do hope to bring back some game for supper!” Her deepened pitch and theatrical posh accent has Fletch snorting with laughter. The two gentlemen grip onto their unlit pipes and the light practically reflects off the thick layer of gel in their hair. 

Jac and Fletch both scan the room for their next victim, then their eyes land on the last two visitors that are yet to be mocked. Clearly a couple that are out of place here, much like themselves, however they’re excited and in love and… 

“I wonder why they’re here,” he asks, attempting to break the static tension that had settled between them as they gaze at the affectionate partners.

“Probably concluding a couple dispute. Quick-draw style.” 

He laughs at her humour but notes the hint of melancholy ebbing into her tone.

 

They engage in small talk for the next few minutes as a handful of others enter the room. A man with a company t-shirt joins them all and introduces himself as Drake, their instructor for the session. He plays them a brief health and safety video on the TV that’s mounted to one of the walls, then passes round boxes of protective goggles and ear defenders.

“Okay! Who’s ready to go let off some steam?!” Drake calls, then opens the door leading to the firing range. 

“Depends on whether I have steam to give,” Jac comments under her breath, but loud enough for Fletch to hear as he follows her out of the room.

 

It concerns him that Jac Naylor’s about to be stood beside him with a gun. Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through… 


	3. Kiwifruits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic may be going in a slightly controversial direction but I hope this chapter is a reasonable and realistic reaction from both Jac and Fletch :)

The group stand around one of the shooting booths where Drake introduces them to the individual parts of a rather compact little gun. Due to the nature of the class, he'd already discussed that they'd be using practice firearms, similar to that of a glock or pistol, except they'd be firing blunt gun pellets instead of bullets. Jac studies the man and his actions, her arms crossed. She's paying keen attention to Drake’s instructions, mentally noting the steps he takes as he assembles and prepares the gun.

_ Load the pellets. Snap it shut. Release safety. Aim. Shoot.  _

 

She subtly looks out the corner of her eye to gage Fletch’s reaction to the whole process. He seems indifferent. Whether that's a façade or down to his familiarity with security coming in to play, she can't tell. 

 

She's caught off-guard in her spying when a bang resounds off the panelled walls around them. Her hand grabs for Fletch as her shoulders hunch and she ducks her head instinctively. He's surprised to see any reaction from her at all and soothingly reaches across to rub her arm as she unclenches her fist from around his fingers. They're stood at the back of the group, so her response to the shot goes unnoticed when they're all directed to filter into the shooting booths. Each booth is partitioned by a panel of wood on either side with a waist-high shelf secured between them. On the shelf are their assembled—but not loaded—pistols, a small tin of pellets and a spare set of protective ear- and eyewear. Their red and blue paper targets are already mounted in the wooden brackets opposite each booth, about ten metres away, which will gradually increase as the session progresses. 

 

For their first shot, they’re to follow the step-by-step instructions Drake calls out before it’s then suggested that they use the ear defenders. Fletch tries to keep his patience when loading the fiddly metal pellets into the gun, his fingers not as nimble as Jac’s surgically refined digits; she seems to have loaded her pistol in the time it takes for him to do a quarter of his. 

“Want some help there?” She asks, leaning against the narrow partition between their booths. His expression softens at the adorable sight of her in the bulky safety goggles, but he knows better than to comment on them.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and shows a pellet to her. “How can my fingers assist in life saving surgery but be defeated by a metal  _ splinter _ ? These things are ridiculously small.”

“Now, now.” She nudges him aside and filters pellets into his gun in rapid succession. “I can do the fiddly stuff but I might need your manly muscles to snap it shut,” she comments, trying to ease this blow to his masculinity. He rolls his eyes at her sarcasm but takes the pistol from her as she returns to her booth to await the next step. Drake comes round to check each instruction is carried out correctly before moving them through the following one. They now have to snap the top of the gun shut, which takes more force than you’d imagine. The springs and hinging are stiff and Jac practically has to use the force of her whole upper body, she’s determined to do it herself. Fletch manages this step, but he won’t admit to the strain it has on his biceps.

“Okay then, folks! Next we release the safety. Remember, red is danger, black is safe. Slide the switch to the red now, but make sure it’s back to black when leaving or loading your gun,” Drake calls. “Off you go!”

A chorus of quiet clicks echoes down the line of booths as they all switch the safety lock off. The first shot of the group isn’t as loud as Drake’s was earlier, but it still causes Jac to jump. She eyes the weapon in her hands and glances in Fletch’s direction to see his progress, but only his back is visible from the booth.

She inhales deeply, takes the stance Drake had shown them and closes one eye as she lines up her aim. She flexes her finger then squeezes. The recoil isn’t as forceful as she’d been expecting. Nor was the sound. Surprisingly, watching the pellet slice through the air and puncture her paper target is somewhat therapeutic… She can’t say it’s helping her process the events that had ended 2017, but it sure as hell is helping with her stress. Shooting isn’t about to become a hobby, but for the moment it’s more enjoyable than she’d thought it would be. She squints a little as she tries to focus on her target… she hit her own piece of paper so that’s not a bad start, surely? She then flicks her gaze across to Fletch’s and sees that his is yet to be punctured. She thinks nothing of it, except perhaps a slight gloat at his poor aim, and lines up her gun to shoot again.

 

She’s finished her first round of ten so sets the gun down, turning the safety mode back on, and decides to intimidate Fletch. She peers round the wooden partition between them but withholds all intimidation upon seeing his gun abandoned on the shelf and no signs of him. Frowning, she swivels to scan the surrounding area but can’t spy him. She then heads towards Drake and lowers her ear defenders so that they’re slung around her neck.

“Do you know where the guy in booth seven went?” She asks him. 

“Said he was busting,” he shrugs and motions to his crotch. She nods, snarling at his language choice, and returns to her booth. Jac isn’t known for her concern, but something about this situation doesn’t sit right with her. She decides she’ll wait for him, so loads the next ten pellets into her gun and leans back against the sturdy shelf as she watches out for his reappearance. When there’s no sign of him for the next few minutes, she concludes that no matter what time he left, he’s taking too long. She makes her way back to the room they’d come from earlier and disappears inside. As she walks between the benches, the door to the reception opens and Fletch stands before her. They both abruptly stop, not sure how to proceed. Does she act like she was looking for him? Does he pretend that he’d merely been going to the toilet? Do they want to appear concerned for one another? Because they are. Internally, they are both worried about how the other is reacting to this evening’s activity.

“Everything okay?” She checks nonchalantly. He steps into the room and closes the door.

“Uh, yep. How’s it going?” 

“Good, good… Want to stop lying to me?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m not lying.”

Now, she folds her arms. “It’s insulting each time that you do.”

He studies her briefly, trying to make sense of her meaning. It can’t be that big a deal, can it?

“I was in the loo.”

She mimics twisting a knife in her heart and wincing.

“I just got a little panicky, alright?”

“There we go. When you tell people what the problem is, they can help you,” she says, as though she’s talking to a child. 

He huffs. “You know what, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea-”

He tries to storm past her, his patience dwindling. 

“No, Fletch, I’m sorry.” She steps into his path and holds her hands up, pressing lightly on his chest when he collides with her. “Do you want to leave? We can go if you want.” He takes a couple of steps back and runs a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I was hesitant about trying it, too. But once you’ve fired it the first time, it kind of becomes fun,” she smiles softly. 

“I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the sane choice of word, given the context.”

“I mean that it’s therapeutic, relieving. And nobody’s getting hurt in the process. Not me, not you, and nobody else. It doesn't mean we're about to go on a rampage or join MI5. Whatever it is that you're scared will happen, it won't. We have morals and logic and pesky children that rely on us.”

“That didn't stop him though, did it?”

“He chose work over his family, and there were consequences because of it. He had the choice to return with them to Sweden, every day. He knew the price.”

He watches her as she falls silent. It's true that Fredrick’s life had been torn apart, but before that he was the same as the two of them. 

“I guess I'm just afraid of turning into him... Into the people that I spend every waking moment trying to protect others from.”

She considers his words and can't deny his logic. Where is he supposed to draw the line between people that use these weapons and those that use these weapons for intentional harm? 

“You've read my file, therefore you know that I'm allergic to kiwifruit. The other day, you came into my office on your break with a packet of crisps and a kiwi. I saw you, sitting on my sofa, and decide against eating the kiwi whilst I was in the room. You ate your crisps, I went into surgery and I presume you then ate your fruit.” She smiles at the frown creasing his brow. “You could have quite easily sat there and eaten the thing I'm allergic to, but you didn't. There was nothing stopping you from walking right up to me and sticking a spoonful of the green slime into my mouth and letting me bear the consequences. What I'm saying is, you had the power to put me in danger but you didn't. You have the power to do it in the future, and I'm  _ hoping _ that you won't. What's so different with this?”

As he connects the dots of her anecdote in relation to today’s events, he starts laughing. Only Jac could turn something as trivial as a kiwi into a life or death situation. 

“This is the moment where I could list a whole host of differences between these scenarios, but I get your point and take it.”

“Does that mean you'll go back in there and shoot something?”

“I'll give it a try.”

She nods and leads the way. When they return to their booths, she lingers behind him and watches as he picks up the gun, testing the weight, then aims and shoots. He turns to look at her with a smile and, from a place she hopes never takes over her cognitive functions again, she winks, and goes back to her booth.


	4. Mummy, Surgeon, and Jac

She holds the sheet of paper at arm’s length, allowing the dim light of night to filter from the windscreen and through the numerous bullet holes in her target. 

“Does this scare you?” She asks, turning to face him and nodding at her sheet. He smiles out at the road ahead. To her, it's a smile that's insulting her many attempts at proving her dominance, as he doesn't seem to harbour the hesitance other people do around her. But in actual fact, he's smiling at her; her excitement, her tone, her energy, the subtle twinkle in her eye. He's not seen her this animated since the shooting, and even prior to that it was a rare occurrence. She'd not shut up about the bullet that had punctured the paper mere millimetres from bullseye since they'd donned their woollen accessories and walked out to the car. She's smug, so very smug, but when it's over something as trivial as this, it's the most endearing attribute. 

 

She’s much more relaxed on the drive back to Holby than she was when they’d left. Not only is her body language more open and less rigid, but the mannerisms and characteristics of her unconscious are calmer, more subtle. Overall, she comes across less antsy than he thinks he’s ever known her to be. She’s hardly carefree, but her features have softened and the atmosphere is charged by – what he can only assume is – Jac Naylor’s positive attitude in overdrive, as those particular mental cogs are rusty with disuse. 

“I’m still getting over the fact I survived being stood beside you with a gun,” he jokes, earning a smirk and appreciative glance from the redhead in the passenger seat. “We’re about twenty minutes from Holby, where do you want to eat?”

Jac shrugs and looks at him blankly, her bottom lip turned down with indifference. He suggests a few eateries in the town centre, which are only narrowed down when she either shrugs or turns her nose up at the ideas in turn. They eventually settle on Italian so he heads to the restaurant on their side of town.

 

Waiting to be seated, the atmosphere between them crackles with awkwardness as they note the candlelit tables and half of Holby’s cohabiting couples sickeningly gazing into each other's eyes. A waiter, dark haired and in his mid twenties, comes over to them and leads them to their table. He hands them both menus, then leaves to collect the wine list at Jac’s request as they shed their jackets and winter garments.

“You’ve, uh... got yourself an admirer,” Fletch mutters, clearing his throat midway through the sentence. Jac’s head shoots up to meet his gaze above their menus and she frowns at him. “The waiter, got the hots for our Naylor,” he clarifies. Her frown only deepens and she goes back to scanning the dish variations on the page before her. If Fletch had been any other male making that comment, she’d have commented on their jealousy or stupidity, but for some reason she can’t quite figure out the underlying tone behind his words.

 

When the waiter returns with the wine list she takes it from him and insists on training her eyes steadily on his. He barely flinches and Jac cuts the contact, selecting her wine and nodding her appreciation. Once the waiter’s fussed over the table arrangements —breaking their napkins, presenting the wine, serving them bread—he leaves and Jac finally closes her menu to turn her attention to the man opposite her. Fletch hasn’t uttered a word, pretending to be overly intrigued by the options for dinner.

“What’s wrong with you?” She eventually asks, a bit blunter than she’d intended. 

He looks up at her, eyes wide, and shrugs. “Nothing. Everything okay with you?”

“You promised me a good time and that’s not what I’m getting with you moping over there. So no, I’m not okay. I want you to tell me what’s irked you.”

“I feel like a bit of a plank.”

“That’s strange, I didn’t realise it was an optional state for you,” she smirks, trying to lighten his mood. 

“You and the waiter making eyes at each other makes me feel like a third-wheel.” 

She huffs in disbelief. “You can’t seriously be that perturbed by it?” When she gets no response from him she sighs and decides not to mock him over this ‘genuine issue’… a decision that’s surprising even herself. “Honestly, I wasn’t going all doe-eyed. I was just trying to see whatever it was you supposedly saw. Besides, I think my days of having little boys like him for breakfast are over.” She purses her lips, keeping a comical snort at bay. It’s only when he finally cracks a smile at her last statement that she laughs herself. “Now can we order or do I need to get a different waiter?” 

He can tell from her tone that she wouldn’t get a different waiter whether he wanted her to or not, so he signalled to the server from across the room.

 

Once they’ve ordered, their conversation wanders back to the usual topics of work and kids. Jac can’t help but muse on the fact that Fletch is like a child. He hadn’t given a second thought to the waiter or the situation from earlier, just the same way Emma forgets that water would undoubtedly taste better in a green cup than a blue one when Peppa Pig is entertaining her.

 

Their food arrives and Jac’s gently blowing on the steaming spoon of rice when her phone rings in her bag on the floor beside her. She grumbles as she reaches for it, and answers when seeing the babysitter’s caller ID on her screen.

“Hello,” she answers, swivelling in her chair to face away from Fletch and putting a hand over her ear so she can hear the woman on the other end of the line. She listens as the panicked student describes the situation. “I’ll come back now. There’s a bowl under the sink.” She grimaces as she turns back to see Fletch’s concern at her tugging on her jacket. “I have to go, Emma’s sick.”

He reaches for his own jacket as he processes her words. “What’s wrong with her?” 

“Don’t know- don’t worry, I’ll get a taxi, you stay and finish your food.”

“Don’t be daft! It’ll be quicker for me to take you back than waiting for a cab. I’ll see if we can get it boxed.” He grabs their plates and heads towards their waiter as Jac secures her wool hat and scarf. She settles the bill then waits for him at the entrance, bouncing impatiently on her toes. He holds up two boxes and follows her out into the cold night, neither saying anything until they accelerate away. 

 

When he pulls up outside Jac’s house, he doesn’t bother checking with her, just walks behind her as she rushes to the front door. She disappears down the corridor and he decides to seek out the kitchen whilst she sorts out Emma and the babysitter. He places the containers with their meals in on the counter and hesitantly studies the dials on the oven, trying to figure out which one to use to keep their food warm. He hears shuffling and voices moving down the hallway followed by the front door opening and closing. He peers round the threshold to see Jac carding her fingers through her hair. 

“What’s happening?” He asks, squeezing her shoulder. 

“Sent the babysitter home…” They realise what this means for their evening and he’s surprised to find an apologetic expression darkening her features. “I’m going to have to clean her up and get her to bed,” Jac murmurs, nodding in the direction of the living room. 

“That’s okay. These things happen,” Fletch reassures. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ve got it covered.”

Suddenly, Emma wails for Mummy and the pair jog down the corridor, they can certainly pride themselves on rapid reaction times. Jac drops onto the sofa beside the small girl and quickly guides her head to the bowl. Fletch looks at the scene before him. He smiles softly at the way Jac softens around Emma and how she’s so absorbed in the role of being Mummy that she barely notices anything else around her. He wonders what they must get up to on the occasions they have time to spend with one another. It’s just the two of them. Jac has no support network, not really. Of course there’s Jonny, but from what he can tell, Jac has little to do with him unless he’s come to pick Emma up. 

 

When Emma settles back against the pillows on the sofa, Jac finally seems to widen her focus from her daughter and realises he’s still stood in the doorway. She looks a little embarrassed for a reason he can’t put his finger on, it’s not as though he doesn’t have four kids of his own. “You stay with her, I’ll go sort that out,” he suggests, holding a hand out for the used bowl. She hesitates but hands it to him and returns her attentions to her poorly little girl. 

It’s as he’s spraying Detol into the bowl that another shout goes through the house, but this time it’s not Emma’s, Jac’s calling for him. He runs, as quickly as is possible, through the house and finds Jac with the front of her black blouse sticking to her, but not in the attractive wet-t-shirt-contest way. She grabs the bowl from his hands and thrusts it beneath her daughter’s bent head.

A minute later, this round of sickness has passed and Emma reaches for her sippee-cup.

“Little sips remember,” Jac coos, stroking the wisps of hair from her daughter’s eyes. 

“You go sort yourself out,” Fletch whispers as he comes to sit beside her. “I’ll stay with her until you come back.” She looks between him and Emma, trying to think if there’s anything else he’d need, but then accepts his offer. As she ascends the stairs she closes her eyes and shakes her head, how appealing she must seem with vomit down her front. At least it’s not her own, that’s a plus. 

 

She hurriedly showers, but the need to lather herself in, what feels like an entire bottle of shower gel, to get rid of the smell of sick hinders her. She dries off quickly and after an internal debate that lasted much longer than she cares to admit, she dons a plain t-shirt and pair of black pyjama bottoms that could pass as yoga-wear. He’s already seen her soggy with vomit, her usual need to dress presentably for company is long gone. She’s about to hurry down the stairs when a faint murmur from Emma’s room gives her pause. Cautiously stepping towards the door, she tries to tune in to what Fletch’s low tones are saying. 

It’s only by the rhythm of his words that she can tell he’s reading The Gruffalo.  _ It’s a universal cadence _ , she ponders. 

 

She tiptoes away from the door again and retreats to her own room to rifle through her wardrobe for the old baby monitor. Most of Emma’s baby paraphernalia had been sorted and distributed accordingly; clothes went to charity, the likes of the cot and baby gym were sold online and only a few things remain at the bottom of Jac’s wardrobe. She digs out the battered and paling box and is pleased to find the two monitors intact. She creeps back to Emma’s room, but this time only lingers outside for a brief moment before nudging the door open and stepping inside. She gives a small smile in greeting to Fletch, but otherwise avoids eye contact as she goes to the socket near Emma’s bed and plugs in one of the monitors. She sees that Emma’s asleep and bends to kiss her on the head, then lightly pushes on Fletch’s shoulder to tell him that he can be relieved of his duties. He quietly closes the book and sets it on the bedside table before following Jac from the room.

“Ready to eat?” He asks once they’re walking back downstairs. 

She’s glad he can’t see her face because there’s no hiding the uncertainty and surprise on it. 

“I’m sure you want to be getting back to your own, less-sick children now,” she says, giving him an out. Not many people willingly spend more time with her than necessary. 

There’s a beat as he weighs up the meaning behind her words. 

“They’ll be fine for a bit longer. Unless you want me to get out your hair?” He’s unsure whether she was encouraging him to go or whether she was just being polite… for a change. 

“Uh… It’s up to you.” He can’t remember the last time she was indecisive. 

“I’ll heat up our food, shall I?”

She nods and takes him through to the kitchen where he retrieves their meals from the oven and Jac gets out a couple of plates from a cupboard. “I’m not sure what they’re like, I kept them warmed through but you may want to shove it in the microwave for a bit,” he says, holding out the container with her risotto. 

 

They both go about sorting their meals and find themselves sitting at the small table in the kitchen. Jac fiddles with the monitor for a few moments until the lights signal that the two monitors are synced and set up. He certainly has a soft spot for Jac Naylor, but he's practically a puddle of adoration for Mummy Jac. He's aware that she's a good mother, she'd always do what's best for Emma and he doesn't doubt her maternal capabilities, but seeing her giving no second thought to arranging the baby monitors and being comfortable enough with him to wear such casual clothes, it makes his heart thrum just a tad faster. 

“Think it’s going to be a rough night?” He asks, nodding at the monitor. 

She finishes her mouthful and shrugs. “Probably…” 

The way she places her cutlery down and eyes him for a second before picking up her glass makes him do the same. There's something she's wanting to say, he can tell.

“What is it?” He encourages softly. 

It takes her a moment but eventually she sighs. “Do you think I should be in with her? Or bring her in with me?”

“I'm sure the monitors will be fine. You'll hear her should she call.”

“I’m not worried about that. Believe it or not she's got some lungs on her, should she beckon for me.”

He smiles, he can  _ very  _ much believe, if Emma’s mother is anything to go by! “What is it you're worried about?”

“Choking.”

He rubs his hands together, searching for the right words. “I'm sure she'll be fine. Check she's on her side when you go to bed, prop a pillow behind her or something. You'll hear her on the monitor and you know what to do should something happen.” She anxiously nibbles on her lip, deep in thought. “If you're that concerned about it then there's no harm having her in with you.”

“I've not had to deal with it before now,” she confesses. He'd gathered this by the obvious worry on her face, but he appreciates her saying it nonetheless. “Jonny dealt with the last tummy bug and prior to that it was just baby stuff.” 

Fletch’s eyebrows raise a little in jealousy; if only his kids could have contracted the bug twice in their first four years alive. He felt like he was constantly an on-call nurse until Evie reached secondary school, one of the four would come home with some virus or bout of lice or grazed shin most weeks.

“We've all got to go through our firsts, this is one of them. Do whatever gives you peace of mind. You need to get some sleep when she does so that you can get through tomorrow. Just remember, the bowl goes wherever she does, even if it's to the bathroom. You'll thank me for that.” He sends a wink in her direction and she pulls a face at the image of having to handle a urinating and vomiting child in one go. 

“I think we've reached the pinnacle of parenthood; discussing my daughter's sickness whilst eating dinner.”

“Happens to the best of us!”

They share a smile at that and continue to munch through their meals, conversation turning to more appealing topics.


	5. The Best Birthday

She takes their empty plates to the counter and turns to find him swigging from his glass. 

“I’m just going to check on her,” she informs him before padding towards the stairs. He eyes her until she’s out of sight, then quickly shrugs on his jacket and quietly rushes out to his car. He grabs the carrier bag from the boot then hurries back inside, closing the front door and removing his jacket as though nothing had happened. He checks over his shoulder as he goes into the kitchen and scatters the few items from the bag onto the counter.

 

When she reaches the bottom step she frowns upon noticing he’s not where she’d left him. She steps into the room and he whips round to face her in surprise.

“What are you…” she begins.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” he goes on to give a rapid rendition of the birthday song whilst holding out a tiny sharing cake with three candles flickering. 

Her mind flashes back to the scene from her nightmares; a failed birthday party and a cake infested with creepy-crawlies, but she doesn’t show it on her face. She looks from the cake, to him, and their eyes lock as he continues to hurry through the slightly untuned serenade. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that he’s acknowledging her birthday or that he’s surprising her or that he’s making a fuss. She smiles and she means it. “Happy birthday to you,” he finishes. “And no cheers for the birthday girl.” He offers a dashing grin and she nods appreciatively. 

“Thank you,” she says, referring to his omission of the customary hip-hip-hoorays. 

“Make a wish!” He raises the cake so that it’s on the right level for her to blow out the candles. She steps a little closer and squeezes her eyes shut as she softly extinguishes the small flames with a puff of air. “Lovely!” He beams proudly at her and sets the cake back on the counter, beside the pack of candles and matches that he’d brought with him.

“Thank you,” she says, a genuine appreciation and vehemence in her tone. She takes a knife from the cutlery drawer and holds it out to him.

“Nuh-uh! Cutting the cake is a birthday duty,” he chirps, not realising that this may as well have been a news bulletin for her.

“Oh, okay,” she agrees, trying to mask the surprise and slight confusion on her face. She sidles up to him and he presses his hand against the gold board beneath the cake to keep it from slipping across the countertop. She makes the first cut and then looks at him to gauge where she should slice next.

“How about we go for quarters, it’s only a small thing? You and Emma can have a slice when she’s better then,” he offers, desperately wanting to quell the uncertainty that laces her features. She follows his suggestion and informs him where the plates are once she’s got the hang of cutting through the thick icing without the board slipping. He retrieves two small plates and patiently waits as she fumbles with picking up a slice and moving it to the chinaware. Eventually, they wrestle the board and half the cake back into the box and take their plates through to the living room.

“Mmm, it’s nice,” she comments, covering her mouth as she speaks through a mouthful. He hums in agreement and comes to sit next to her on the sofa, a couple of feet between them. The sound of them both chewing fills the room for the next couple of minutes.

“So how has today been in the end? I know Emma being ill wasn’t the best birthday present, but has it been as terrible as you thought it would be?” He asks.

She shrugs. “It’s not been terrible.” They both smirk, knowing she’s just keeping up the Ice Queen act. “No, I’ve had a nice time. As my track record with birthday goes, this has been award winning.”

“For a good nomination I hope.”

“Best birthday spent with a Fletcher,” she quips.

“Best birthday anyone can have!”

She actually laughs at that, turning to see his own face crease with amusement. “You’re ridiculous,” she chuckles.

“As you’ve hastened to point out on many an occasion before.”

He barely has chance to get the last syllable out because her lips are softly pressing against his. She smells of citrus body wash and the gentle touch of her tongue tastes sweet like the icing from the cake. She’d shuffled to her knees prior to kissing him, allowing her to lean down to reach his lips, and it’s only a few seconds until she slowly relaxes and lowers to sit back on heels, her legs folded beneath her. He adjusts his body so that he’s not twisting awkwardly and brings his own knee onto the cushion of the couch, facing her completely and letting him deepen the kiss. It’s not forceful or rushed, it’s patient and hesitant and intimate and  _ about bloody time _ , they both think.

 

They slowly pull apart and Jac’s uncharacteristically anxious, it surprises him considering her confidence when initiating the kiss.

“You okay?” He murmurs.

She smiles gently, appreciating his constant concern, despite it being something that has irked her more often than not. She nods to reassure him. He must take this as a promising sign as he leans in to capture her lips again and she doesn’t stop him. The next time they resurface for air, Jac’s nervousness has been stamped out and she looks him dead in the eye, intrigued to see what she’d find reflecting in them. He gives her a smile, which earns him one in return, and they decide to put the television on until it’s time for him to go. 

 

They sit quietly, side by side, arms touching and feet tucked up on the sofa. It’s not a particularly intimate position, but baby steps… Neither of them are paying any attention to the TV, not when they can feel the warmth of the other pressed along their arm, the silent rise and fall of their chests, the tingling trace of their lips moving together… It’s not perfect, but it’s certainly the best birthday Jac’s ever had.

 

**~Fin~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s the end! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it :)


End file.
